Safe
by TheShadowArchitect
Summary: A day-long chase leaves Mac and Desi exhausted, badly hurt and stranded in an abandoned safe house.


"I need 'oc health"

"Ma'am, this is an external line, you'll need to call back through-"

"This is Desiree Nguyen. Employee number 1577349. I don't have access to a secure line. I need to speak with whoever's covering oc health and I need them _now_."

"Ma'am, I'm very sorry, I can't-" Desi's thumb left a smear of blood on the screen as she hung up on the operator. She tossed the phone to the floor, maybe a little harder than she wanted to.

She should have threatened the wrath of Matty. She should have tried to get them to have Gayle to call her back on a personal line. Should have kept arguing, even just to have someone to talk to…

"Mac?" She forced herself to breathe through the word, letting as much of the frustration go as possible. No answer. "Mac, so help me…" She reached up to shake the still form of her companion, eliciting a muffled groan in response. If nothing else, it confirmed he had not slipped farther into unconsciousness than he'd been when they'd arrived less than a half hour before. When the groan died, she forced herself to count his breaths. Ragged, and faster than they should be, but again, stable against her last check.

They'd crashed the car. It was a good choice when it happened, ultimately ending nearly a days' pursuit, but it had left them in… well, saying it was a rough position would be underselling it, she thought.

Desperation was not a word Desi used lightly, and it was one she hesitated to use even here. They were in a hostile country, huddled inside a different hostile country's long-unused safehouse, two countries away from where the Phoenix Foundation thought they were. The phone was a burner purchased from a kiosk outside the nearest subway station and had, as far as she was able to figure, come up as an unfriendly number to the Phoenix's emergency phone system, denying her any sort of phone support. Even if she'd managed to get through, she thought, their exfil at this point would amount to either a massive risk or some substantial favor trading, neither of which she was certain could be reasonably undertaken with a positive outcome.

She herself was sitting propped against the edge of the couch Mac lay on. In some ways, even though she knew his near-sleep was nothing close to voluntary, she envied him. 48 hours awake was the definition of misery no matter how well trained she was, and all she wanted to do was lay down on the linoleum floor and close her eyes.

Not helping the matter at all, there was a wide gash on her thigh which had slowly soaked blood into her pant leg and boot as she'd carried, then eventually half-supported-half-dragged, Mac through the back entrance of the apartment building and then down the long, dimly-lit hallway to the safehouse. It was now pooling on the floor where she sat. Not a lot per-se. Not enough to worry. She knew with her level of fitness the 200 or so milliliters it amounted to was trivial. But it was there, and every move she made seemed to negate any progress her body had made to stemming the flow. And she was exhausted and in pain and by the stark greenish light of the emergency lantern, everything looked so, so much worse…

So if not desperation, something edging ever closer to it.

That said, they had a couple of things going for them. She was nearly certain she'd managed to break in undetected. The alarm system was still physically present but clearly long deactivated along with the power and water, and with the lack of light they probably had at least a few hours before some well-bribed citizen called in some suspicious activity happening in the apartment no one had ever lived in. If they kept the blinds closed and stayed quiet they might have longer than that.

Desi picked up the phone and forced herself to stand, favoring her injured leg. She'd always been good at finding safe places to crash, even before she'd joined the Phoenix Foundation. Given their situation, this wasn't even too bad. It was a living space with a couch and a couple of fold down bunks, connected to a nook of a kitchen and half bath. She took a second to watch Mac's chest rise at a better angle and then hobbled over to lean on the worn fold-out table in the kitchen. The place had clearly been in well-used service before being, she assumed, quietly abandoned in the early 90s.

Even decommissioned, no one had seemed eager to come in and reclaim the supplies- or, more likely, there had been some pressing political reason it wasn't feasible. Either way, it was something finally working in their favor. Desi granted herself a moment of relief when the cupboards revealed glass jugs of drinking water, cans and boxes stamped with Cyrillic letters that looked like food, and a large-ish tin box that, if she was lucky, contained medical supplies. It was about time they got something good out of the last few days, even if that came in the form of long-expired mystery food.

Desi promised herself all the canned potato flakes she could eat just as soon as she properly checked Mac out and cleaned her own wound. It was the part she wished she had someone on the other end of a phone to guide her for, but long ago she'd learned to accept what she had on hand as enough, and that was a skill that was coming in increasingly handy with this job.

The moment she'd dragged Mac out of the wreckage of their vehicle, she'd confirmed he was breathing adequately, had a pulse, and wasn't bleeding so severely he wouldn't make it to safety. She'd done the same assessment two more times on the way to the apartment, and again just moments before, including those times enough of a nudge or minor pain to elicit a groan or movement, which also to her worried optimism hadn't changed significantly.

Those were assessments she could do in her sleep, and that she practiced unfortunately often. But in her years in special forces and intelligence, often her exfil or a battle medic could be on scene before she needed or even had time to provide more than a tourniquet application. But she'd been trained, just like they all had.

And, clearly, there was a reason for that.

She hauled the kit, a plastic bucket, and one of the jugs of water over to Mac and then propped the kit open on a coffee table. A vinegary smell rose out of it and a layer of empty wrappers lightly stained with faded blood said they weren't the first to give it use. She cleared the wrappers out, a little apprehension rising that maybe there wasn't much left after all these years.

Below the wrappers was slightly more reassuring. The gauze was mostly gone beyond a few small pieces in partially opened packs, but there was gently used elastic wrap, scissors, a bottle of alcohol, petroleum jelly, wide fabric tape, and a medication case that was largely intact except for a few empty packets that she figured had once contained the stronger end of pain medication.

Protocol was to take care of herself first. The first time it had come up, years ago, she had thought that a stupid idea- why waste time fixing up a trivial injury on oneself if someone else objectively needed the resources more? But over time the reasoning for the protocol had become more apparent. It was foremost utilitarian- in the same way that a certain amount of sleep was a necessity for combat effectiveness, a certain amount of medical care for herself was a necessity in order to maintain her fitness to help Mac.

She ripped the fabric around her thigh wound to expose it enough to work on. Sitting carefully on the edge of the coffee table, she put the bucket under the wound, a couple of sluggish drips of blood landing at the bottom. She removed the foil seal on the water jug and hefted it onto the table beside her. With one hand, she then gently opened the cut and tilted the water so it poured through the wound. Immediate, electric pain lanced through her leg, and only her death grip on the jug stopped her from dropping it onto the laminate floor. She forced herself to do it two more times, until she could see the white layer of fat beneath her skin quickly disappear into blood as soon as the water stopped.

It took a good three minutes before her hands stopped shaking enough to continue, grateful in a way that Mac's still body provided an incentive to keep going as soon as she could manage. After the washing, her wound was dripping more quickly, coating the side of her leg with dark red blood. She took the elastic wrap out of the pack and folded the end over itself a couple of times until she had a thick pad. She pressed it against her wound, breathing out through her nose as the pain hit again, a little harder than she expected. Hands shaking a little bit, she wrapped the remaining portion of the bandage around her thigh as tightly as she could manage. It wasn't much, but it was quick and satisfied protocol. Realizing she probably hadn't drunk anything in hours, she forced down a few gulps of what remained in the jug, the faint bleach taste at once reassuring and aggravating to her empty stomach.

Hydrated as much as she could manage, she looked at her handiwork to make sure no blood was coming through quickly enough to be of worry, then turned her attention to Mac.

She moved the lantern to a nearby end table, the light not being quite adequate but at least better than where it had been next to the first aid kit. There wouldn't be a lot she could do medically here for him and she knew it, but at least she could get a full secondary assessment in and maybe find something she could actually do something about.

Gingerly, she started with his head, running her fingers through his hair and as carefully as possible over his scalp. She could feel several days' grease and dirt, gritty against the warmth of his scalp. The feeling gave way to stiff strands matted together by blood along the right side of his head. There was a patch of disrupted skin underneath the bloody hair, but fortunately no dent that would indicate an obvious fracture. No bruising behind his ears or along his hairline, and as far as she could tell, while there was a mess of blood dried on the lower half of his face, no clear fluid seeped out of his nose or ears.

Her hands traced down the back of his neck, which didn't reveal any obvious deformity, so at least he was lucky there. She found a patch of dried blood on the side of his neck from what appeared to be a shallow gash where the seatbelt had cut into it in the abrupt stop. His eyes both had bruising around them. Somewhere deep in her memory told her that was a Bad Thing, but coupled with a clearly-broken nose she didn't quite know how worried to be.

Desi reached to open Mac's eyelids- an action she barely got a second into before Mac's arm shot up to push her hands away. He missed wildly, but Desi felt a surge of hope.

"Mac!"

He curled away from her, groaning, his hands over his face but not quite touching it. "Owww…" In the light of the lantern his eyes were tightly shut, a tear squeezing through the slit on the right side and cutting a short path through the grime on his face.

She put a hand on his shoulder, half expecting him to jerk away again at her touch. He didn't, but she wasn't sure what was worse. His body was ridged, miles from the relaxed unconsciousness he'd been in only moments ago. "Mac, it's okay, it's Desi. You're safe."

Mac let out a sob, relaxing only slightly. "Mac, I know it hurts but I need you to open your eyes for me."

"Ugh… light" The amount of relief Desi felt at the couple of half-words was immense.

"Just gotta see your eyes, Mac. Doesn't have to be long and I don't have to touch them." He seemed to consider it. Slowly, he forced an eye partially open, the swelling around it not letting it get much farther. "That's great, Mac, you're doing great- can I see the other one?"

As far as she could tell in the dim light, his pupils were round and about the same size. Which from her limited knowledge ruled out at least the really, really bad stuff. "Good effort, Mac." He looked relieved as he let his eyes shut again. Desi took a second or two to let her own adrenaline die down. It had been a while since her reserves had gotten this low and she felt like she was just bouncing along, barely squeezing enough calm out of a peaceful moment to make it to the next one.

She didn't get too much time to recover. Mac coughed harshly in a way that struck terror in Desi's heart. She reacted quickly, dragging the partially-filled bucket next to Mac's head while simultaneously grabbing the back of his shirt and forcing his upper body to the edge of the couch. He spat a mouthful or two of bile into the brownish-pink water and tried to roll back against her hand. He didn't fight it too hard, letting her hold him on his side for a few more seconds, breathing harshly. Fortunately, between not eating for more than a day and two previous bouts of concussion-induced vomiting, there wasn't much coming up. A couple of seconds went by in silence.

"Mac, you good?"

"Ugh" the response sounded particularly vague.

"I'm gonna let you roll back, okay?"

"Oh.." Without opening his eyes, he awkwardly rolled forward, nearly falling off the side of the couch before running into Desi and jerking back.

"Whoa, hey, you're on a couch." Desi let out a breath as he eased himself onto his back.

"Where…?" His eyes briefly opened again.

Desi wondered what to tell him. The fact that he was taking an interest in his environment gave her some hope, but it didn't change their situation much.

"Safe." If that was the only word he processed, she wanted to take at least some of the stress off him. "I don't know that exfil will be anytime soon but the people chasing us think we're dead and we've got enough to survive for a while so…" Mac seemed to half-nod, then grimace at the movement, his eyes closing again. Desi felt a trill of fear go through her. A little embarrassed, she realized it was not as much that she was worried about Mac falling asleep again but that she didn't want to be alone with an unconscious Mac. Plus, if he was even vaguely alert, she knew there were questions he needed to answer for her. "Hey, keep your eyes open." She started as she struggled to remember what to ask him. He complied with what looked like great effort. "Can you tell me what your name is?"

There was a moment of silence longer than Desi was comfortable with. "MacGyver?" He finally said, his face looking as though he didn't quite recognize it. His eyes drifted shut again.

"What day is it?" Back open. Another longer-than-comfortable pause.

"Saturday?" After two days awake, for a moment even she couldn't quite give a good answer. She knew it was sometime between Tuesday and Thursday, her brain finally settling on Wednesday after a series of mental gymnastics. She decided it wasn't a fair question.

"What month?"

"August?" October. That one she couldn't as easily explain away.

"Where's home for you?"

He looked like he was about to answer, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was "'m really tired." His eyes had closed again and he didn't look like he would be interested in re-opening them.

"Okay, one more question, this one's really important, huh? What hurts? Besides your head." She waited a beat. "Mac?"

"Huh?"

"What hurts besides your head?" After another couple of seconds' thought, he gestured to his abdomen, possibly higher.

"Okay, that's where I'm going to look next." She opened his flannel shirt and lifted the undershirt up as far as it would go. He neither complained nor moved to help her, apparently exhausted by the questioning.

In the lantern light she could see a defined bruise across his lower abdomen, becoming more diffuse over his lower right flank and hip. She pressed lightly over the area, feeling it slightly harder than she was expecting. Mac groaned. Shit. "You had to crash the car on your side, didn't you?"

The firmness could be a sign of severe internal bleeding. Or just maybe some surface swelling from the bruise. She tried to convince herself that it was just in that one area, pushing back on a former instructor's favorite morbid fun fact- the abdomen could hold the entire body's blood supply, and unless you really paid close attention, it wouldn't look particularly bad until it was too late. She took a picture of the area with her phone, with the intention of comparing any change later.

Pushing the memory away, she pushed her hands under Mac's back and ran her fingers along his spine. Again, no obvious deformity or reaction from Mac and her hands had no new blood on them when they came back out. She pressed on his chest, eliciting a hiss of pain but no physical instability that she could feel. Then she pressed down each of his legs, noting nothing abnormal.

Concussion, possible internal bleeding. It had to be the really frustrating ones, didn't it? The ones she couldn't do anything about whatsoever. Mac was either going to be okay or dead, and there was nothing she could do to encourage either scenario.

Freeing, she supposed, even if it didn't feel like it.

With the bare minimum done, exhaustion crashed over her. There was more to do. There was food and cleaning Mac's wounds and securing the house and finding some way out of the mess they were in without causing an international incident. There was figuring out how the hell she was going to explain this to Matty. There was tending to her own wound, which had bled through the bandage and was again soaking into her pant leg. There was…

But none of it had a particularly high chance of killing anyone in the next few hours. She set a timer on the phone. She'd sleep for two hours, wake Mac up, ask some questions, re-wrap her leg and maybe make some food and if they were going to be here any longer than a few more hours, see if Mac could hold down some water.

She folded down one of the beds and laid down, asleep before her head hit the bare mattress.


End file.
